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For a long,
long time in Hieron, it was autumn. Crisp branches snapped under
foot. Still lakes caught the reds, yellows, and oranges of the
leaves overhead, stuck eternally between life and death. The waves
taunted children and elder alike, a step too cold for all but the
bravest of swimmers. And there was laughter, and planning, and good
food. People would stand around bonfires--out on the beaches of
Velas, in the communal pits of Rosemerrow--and trade stories. Old
stories, the kind passed down from parent to child. They bent in
new directions with each telling, but they never fully changed.
They were trust worthy and familiar, but like a poor cider, dead on
the tongue. But it is winter now. Snow has arived in Velas, and it
is time for cold tongues to learn new words.